


Gentle Autumn Rain

by OneFrustratedWriterPerson



Series: A Host of Golden Daffodils [1]
Category: Marvel Cinematic Universe, The Avengers (Marvel Movies), The Avengers (Marvel) - All Media Types
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-03-27
Updated: 2016-03-27
Packaged: 2018-05-29 05:40:10
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: Major Character Death
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,027
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/6361633
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/OneFrustratedWriterPerson/pseuds/OneFrustratedWriterPerson
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>She used to say that God doesn’t give us anything we can’t handle, that I got so sick because I was the only one strong enough to…get through it.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Gentle Autumn Rain

**Author's Note:**

> Greetings, lovely readers! Since my supposed second chapter for A Host of Golden Daffodils turned out to be longer than I thought, I decided to repackage them into separate stories under a series of the same name. Sorry for any confusion this might've caused you. 
> 
> I hope you'd still find this and my other works enjoyable :D
> 
> PS. this story was inspired by the poem, Do Not Stand At My Grave And Weep by Mary Elizabeth Frye  
> 

 

The clock read 3:27am.

She couldn’t sleep. Letting out a small grunt of frustration, she rolls out of bed and decides to take a little stroll to clear her mind. The dimly lit hallways were isolated at such an early hour, as is always the case after such a tiring mission. Needless to say, the team would need to spend extra hours in the gym in the next few weeks. 

They weren't a well-oiled machine yet, considering that only one third of the original team stayed behind (not that she didn't understand why the others left—they had lives outside of this danger-driven life), but they’ll get there, she figures, sooner that anyone thinks. 

Having made up her mind, she makes her way soundlessly (old habits die hard) to the training room; reasoning that, perhaps, tiring out her muscles some more can, at the very least, get her some semblance of a decent night’s rest. 

What greets her upon entrance to the supposedly empty room makes her stop short.

Alone in the darkness, Steve sat in the middle of the sparring mat, still in his night clothes, his back to her with his strong arms resting on loosely bent knees; his head was tilted back, eyes staring blankly at the imposing Avengers logo slightly glimmering in the moonlight. 

Mindful not to startle him, she makes her way to where he was, gracefully folding her legs to sit beside him. Concern clouded her thoughts as she caught a glimpse of his red, swollen eyes and his tightly clenched fists.

Not knowing what else to do, she rests a comforting hand on his forearm, gently squeezing as if to give him strength for whatever he’s going through (god knows he deserves to break down once in a while).

Seconds turn into minutes, and just when she finds the courage to speak, he breaks the silence, in a quiet, defeated voice she’s only heard once before (and if that doesn’t cause her worries to sky rocket then she doesn't know what will—she’d rather not stumble upon him on some lakeshore half-dead ever again).

“My mother,” he smiles sadly at the memory, “she…when I got sick or beat up, she used to say that God doesn’t give us anything we can’t handle, that I got so sick because I was the only one strong enough to…get through it. She’d tell me ‘you get up every time someone knocks you down…”

“ _Steve—”_ she began, but his tormented baritone cuts her off, and she feels her chest ache at the sound.

“I promised—” he swallows painfully, barely able to do so, “I _promised_ I would visit her tomorrow.”

She knew then, understood his grief, knew what he was about to say, and she had never felt more helpless.

 

_Who do you want me to be?_

 

“Peggy died an hour ago.”

 

_How ‘bout a friend?_

In the stillness of the budding morning, she endures the shame of her uselessness, him, his overwhelming guilt.

Outside, dark clouds glide by, blocking any residual moonlight; the glimmer of the Avenger’s logo fades away, and they are shrouded in shadows.

“Nat, I…”

She looks at him desperately—something he couldn’t see—and waits, willing him to ask her to do something—anything to make all of this go away, even just for a while.

“I don’t think I want to be strong anymore.”

Her resolve snaps and suddenly, she’s straddling him, arms wrapped tightly around his shoulders, hands firmly grasping the back of his head. 

“Careful, Rogers, she’d have shot you already for saying stuff like that.” 

He half-sobs and half-laughs into her neck, and a part of her is relieved to hear it. She lets him cry, that much she could do for him, but as she runs her fingers through his hair, she doubts she can do anything more to ease his loss. 

She tries anyway. For him.

“She convinced me to stay.” Her muffled admission slices through his stilted weeping, and he quiets down, settling his arms around her lithe frame.

“She was there when Clint brought me in. Most of SHIELD didn’t take too kindly to fact that I was still alive—can’t say I blame them for the sentiment,” he rewards her with a muted smile, “I was about to get out of dodge, you know, run for as long as I could, but she went to my holding cell one day and, well,” she can’t help but grin ruefully at the imagery, “she could be very convincing.”

He sniffled lightly before responding, “I bet.”

She turns her head to rest on his as it, in turn, nestles on her shoulder; and they sit there in each others arms, breathing in sync, content with the solemn silence between them.

Steve moves first, slightly pulling away to look at her—to _see_ her with his ocean blue eyes.

“Thank you.” 

And, despite the lingering sorrow in them, the minuscule curl of his lips was enough to let her know he’d be alright (she’ll make sure of it).

“Well, I am your friend, right?” She teases, basking in the quiet warmth of what she had just managed to do.

He says nothing at first, merely taking the sight of her in, but then, ever so slowly, his hand reaches out, thumb gently brushing against the apple of her cheek. Her breath hitches ever so slightly—not enough for him notice—and she’s left wondering how he’s gotten so deep under her skin without her knowing.

“Not just.” His undertone sends shockwaves right to her heart, and she rides it’s aftermath in utter silence, wanting to give them both time to understand the gravity of what he had just confessed. 

The clouds recede, casting soft light upon them. 

She sees the truth in the contours of his face, etched in his eyes, and she _wants_ —

_He’s not ready_ —neither of them are; but maybe, just this once, until the time’s right (if they ever do get to that point), she can let him know just how much he means to her. 

“Not just,” she whispers, words meant only for him, “not just.”

 

**Author's Note:**

> #RomanogersForever
> 
> PPS. if you have special prompts, please feel free to let me know! I won't make any promises, but I'll see what I can whip up.


End file.
